Trace

By Pat Cummings

In a debut novel that's perfect for fans of Jason Reynolds and Erin Entrada Kelly, award-winning author/illustrator and educator Pat Cummings tells a poignant story about grief, love, and the untold stories that echo across time. 

Trace Carter doesn’t know how to feel at ease in his new life in New York. Even though his artsy Auntie Lea is cool, her brownstone still isn’t his home. Haunted by flashbacks of the accident that killed his parents, the best he can do is try to distract himself from memories of the past.

But the past isn’t done with him. When Trace takes a wrong turn in the New York Public Library, he finds someone else lost in the stacks with him: a crying little boy, wearing old, tattered clothes.

And though at first he can’t quite believe he’s seen a ghost, Trace soon discovers that the boy he saw has ties to Trace’s own history—and that he himself may be the key to setting the dead to rest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Apr 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9780062698865

Pat Cummings

Pat Cummings was raised as an Army "brat" in Germany, Okinawa, and Kansas (!), using art as an entree whenever she moved from school to school. Having created everything from board books to teen novels, nonfiction to children's television, she now teaches a children's book course at Parson's School of Design and at her alma mater, Pratt Institute.

Book preview

1

Car door!

Green water was rising, crawling, clawing up his legs. Not again. And that smell. Too green, too deep, too river. Long-fingered water pulled at his knees, inching up now, almost gingerly tugging at his waist. The car door wouldn’t open! What? Was Mom talking to him? Silence. But no, her lips were moving. Was she . . . praying? He didn’t dare answer, could not chance opening his mouth. Warm water was lapping at his chin, softly, greedily. And her eyes. He felt sick for her. Water was filling her eyes. Turning them that same awful green. Car door! And Dad. Just banging, banging, banging the stupid windows, kicking glass that wouldn’t break. Too late now, those dark hands had found him, again, pulled at his slippery arms, again. No! Missed her! Clammy green fingers were slipping along the edges of his lips now, trying to tease them open. Car door!

It. Wouldn’t. Open! Water flooded into his mouth. Missed her! Car door!

Mr. Carter!

"Uuhhh?" Trace jerked awake and away from the sharp punch in his back. He struggled to place himself. Class. Mrs. Weaver, hand on one hip, loomed over his desk, waiting for an answer to something. Scattered giggling surrounded him and someone near the door snorted.

Sorry, I, uh . . . Trace wiped a trail of drool from the corner of his mouth. Behind him there was a burst of coughing followed by unintelligible sputtering. The punch had definitely awakened him, but even if his friend Ty, in the seat behind him, had hacked up a lung trying to warn him, he still had no idea what Mrs. Weaver wanted.

Six of his classmates stood in front of the chalkboard, looking bored and annoyed. Waiting. For him. Trace blinked at the board, hoping for a clue. But the string of dates written on it told him nothing: 1800, 1810, 1820, 1830, 1840, 1850. Each year had a name under it and each of the students held a piece of yellow chalk.

Sometime today, Mr. Carter, Mrs. Weaver said wearily. She handed him a stump of yellow chalk. The room felt too warm. A hiss of steam escaped from the radiators. Tree branches slapped across the windows, shaking off leaves that flattened themselves against the glass, desperate not to fall. The clock on the wall clunked softly, its second hand flinching as another minute died.

Trace’s friend Tiberius, the only one in class who might not be enjoying his embarrassment, gave him another punch from behind, gentler this time.

Trace took the chalk reluctantly and joined his classmates at the board, ignoring their scowls. Mrs. Weaver peered over her glasses at the rest of the class and called out, Ms. Stringer!

Yolanda Stringer was unfortunately named. Long and gangly, with dishwater-blond hair masking her eyes, she fit her Stringbean nickname. Trace had never called her that though. Hunching out from her desk, she slumped forward, accepted a piece of chalk, scrawled 1870 on the board, and signed her name below that.

Put your year up, wacko, she whispered loudly to Trace.

Need help counting, freak boy? Lou Pagano hissed from his other side.

Trace turned, ignoring them, tuning them out. He sized up the sequence of numbers and wrote 1860 and his name on the board. This had to be the timeline project they had talked about last Friday. But Stringbean had called him wacko? And Lou the Schnozz thought he was the freak? Losers. With his back to the room, Trace closed his eyes momentarily. This did not count. This was not his class. These were not his friends. He breathed slowly and turned around. Sticks and stones.

His head felt soggy. Licking his dry, cracked lips only made them sticky. And it seemed there was something else . . . something gritty. Like mud. River-bottom mud. He still smelled it. It was always going to be there, wasn’t it? Trace looked at Mrs. Weaver, willing her, begging her, commanding her, to let them go. He wanted to sit down now, maybe put his head between his knees, or open a window and breathe in as much air as his lungs could hold. But the small, round woman was busily recording what was written on the board.

Okay. You eight will pick in, um, hold on . . . Mrs. Weaver scrawled their names on eight index cards, folded them quickly, and dropped them into the Elvis vase she kept on her desk. Grabbing the ceramic head, she shook it violently, then plunged a chubby hand into what would have been the King’s frontal lobe.

. . . in this order: Theodore first, Damon, Kristin, Winston, Haeyoun, Yolanda, Louis, then Marcus.

The unusual pleasure of being called first for anything, for winning something even remotely like a contest, was quickly replaced by confusion. Pick what? Trace scanned the room.

Kali Castleberry had her head down, scribbling in her notebook, ignoring him as always. It was the top of her head, the way the rows of perfectly woven braids did not allow a single stray hair to escape even now at the end of the day, that let him know: he was supposed to be picking study partners and he had better not pick her.

Today, Mr. Carter, Mrs. Weaver groaned. Please choose two people, TODAY. The teacher had squeezed her wide hips into the swivel chair behind her desk, a chair that had long ago surrendered under the weight of her failed diets. Listing to one side, it creaked in pain as, with a weary sigh, the teacher leveled her eyes upon him and rested her chins atop the vase. Elvis gave him a sideways grin. Go for it, man.

All in all, it had not been a horrible day. Tiberius was running late, so Trace ran into the deli next to the Bergen Street station. Grabbing a bottle of juice, he got on line behind three girls he recognized from his biology class. They were talking loudly and nonstop. But although he saw them twice a week, they made it clear when he smiled at them that they were not talking to him. Trace glanced out the deli window. What was taking Ty so long?

He was studying the faces of kids as they streamed down the sidewalk toward the subway entrance when he noticed a small boy. The kid was too little to be alone on the street, but no one seemed to be with him. His hair was a mess, his clothes were disheveled. Even from across the street, that much was clear. Trace looked down briefly to dig two dollars out of his pants pocket for the juice. When he looked again, the boy was staring right at him. A shiver raced through his chest. But why would he . . . what was the . . . ?

You just gonna show me the juice, or are you buyin’ it, kid? The man behind the register was glaring at him, one eyebrow raised. The girls had gone. Trace paid for the juice, then turned back to the window, almost afraid to see the kid again. But all he saw was Tiberius hurrying past the window and descending into the subway.

Hey, Ty, wait up! Trace called. By the time he caught up with his friend on the platform, he was out of breath and the kid was forgotten. What’s happening, man? You ran right past me.

"Oh. Did I overlook you?" Tiberius huffed.

Wha . . . ? Trace shook his head as though he was shaking out loose parts. "What’s eating you?"

Tiberius glared at him, then turned to face the empty tunnel, as if their train was approaching. He said nothing for minutes, leaving Trace to stare at his friend’s back. A faint olive image of SpongeBob that had been inked over with a marker grinned weakly from Ty’s backpack. Trace shook his head.

A girl? Tiberius finally snarled. You picked a girl first and just left me hanging out there?

Trace had to stop himself from laughing. Ty couldn’t be serious. When would he have ever gotten to have the first pick like that again? So, yeah. He could choose Kali Castleberry, unattainable goddess and überpopular school beauty who was unaware of his existence (and who would surely have been scooped up when demon Damon made the second pick), or he could choose his best and, admittedly, only friend, Tiberius. He should not have to explain this.

You’re kidding, right? Trace asked. C’mon, man. When would I get a crack at ever even talking to her again? You knew I was gonna call you next. I had to take my shot.

No one would have chosen Tiberius first. Trace knew it. He suspected Ty knew it. Tiberius was a classic leftover, just like Trace would have been if he hadn’t been the one doing the choosing. A chubby Chinese American graffiti artist slash would-be rapper and a scrawny black new kid whose weekly therapy sessions seemed to be common knowledge just weren’t going to top any popularity list. Not at Intermediate School 99 in the People’s Republic of Brooklyn. Not on Planet Earth.

He nudged his friend. Hey, I had to go for it, Ty.

A warm rush of sweaty air announced the arrival of their train. It would have been easy to get separated in the brusque exchange of bodies getting on and off as the doors dinged open. But Ty moved slowly, letting Trace keep up with him. The apology had been accepted.

2

Leatrice Anne Cumberbatch, long-limbed and cinnamon-colored like Trace’s mom, was staring into a steaming pot on the stove when Trace arrived. Home. This was not home. Every time he slid his key into the scarred lock on the weathered door of the ramshackle brownstone at this bedraggled end of Vanderbilt Avenue, Trace reminded himself: this is not home.

Hey, hey, hey, mister, Auntie Lea sang out. You are in for a treat tonight. His aunt had headphones on, and whatever she was listening to was so loud that Trace could make out the wail of a saxophone from where he stood in the doorway to the kitchen. She didn’t wait for a response, just danced from sink to stove to refrigerator, bobbing her head. The kitchen table, a huge plank of raw wood that had been painted a deep forest green, was piled with colorful hemp bags of fresh vegetables. The smells emanating from the stove gave nothing away.

Trace took the stairs two at a time, shrugging off his backpack when he reached his room on the second floor. Technically, it was not his room. Know that, he said quietly to himself. He kicked off his sneakers and climbed a short ladder to the loft bed where he slept. The room had a split personality: half his, half his aunt’s studio. But it was all hers really. The bed and the little work space right underneath it held practically everything he owned. A photographer’s lamp, clamped to the underside of the ladder, illuminated his small desk. Its drawers were crammed with worn sketchbooks, the few CDs he had, letters, paper, batteries, chewed pens, yearbooks from his school in Baltimore, his mom’s snow globe, his dad’s cuff links, a deck of cards from Disney World. Junk.

Auntie Lea had cleared the walls in the room, offering them up as his to claim. They were still blank. Before he had arrived, the room had been her studio. In front of two tall windows that overlooked a small patch of grass sat her handmade table, half covered with trays of beads. She must have cleaned out a Box Bag n’ Bin store, because her many pairs of pliers, tiny screwdrivers, spools of clear and black nylon thread, and tubes of shiny sequins all lived in their own little compartments, arm’s length from her work stool. Auntie Lea made jewelry. She did not seem to make money from her jewelry, but that didn’t matter to her. It was, she had told Trace repeatedly, her passion.

Auntie Lea had a lot of passions.

Music. Dance. Photography. Cooking. He had known about her many interests from family visits, back when he was too little to be wary of her experiments in the kitchen. Knitting. Conceptual art. Astrology. Numerology. Many of Auntie Lea’s passions ended in -ology. She’s been talking with aliens again, his dad would say, winking as he handed over the phone for Trace to say hello whenever they called her.

When Trace had come to live with her in August, his aunt had tried to get him to talk about what his passion might be. But that was after the accident. After everything had frozen and he found he did not have to answer questions, could not have answered if he had wanted to. Trace knew his aunt meant well. But if he looked at her too long he saw his mom’s eyes, his mom’s elegant jawline and the high cheekbones he knew he himself had inherited. And those few times when she forgot and touched his arm or tried to hug him, he felt as though a wave was sweeping into him, surprising him with a sudden, unpleasant sensation of being off-balance.

Auntie Lea was his mother’s baby sister, so he loved her like you love an aunt you only see on holidays. Like an aunt who had time to listen to you babble when you were too little for words but fascinated by phones. She was the spacey aunt who kept an eye out for UFOs, chatted with houseplants, and saw signs everywhere in everything. If the universe was sending messages, his aunt was all ears. But what good were signs that didn’t come in time? That weren’t clear? Auntie Lea was cool. But, no. Trace didn’t have a passion to offer up when she asked. What he had was a blank.

Kicking off his sneakers, he stretched his legs to rest his feet on the ceiling. This was his thinking position. A burst of laughter came from downstairs, followed by singing. It was not his aunt’s voice. The doorbell rang. Grand Central Station. He sighed. An endless stream of what his mom would call the fringe element always turned up at mealtimes on Vanderbilt. The right thing to do would be to go downstairs and offer to help. His aunt would be thrilled. Trace walked his feet along the ceiling and looked around the room.

In Baltimore, his bedroom walls had been plastered with pictures of athletes and singers, calendars, schedules, and photos of friends and family. Here, a box stuffed with photographs sat on a shelf in his closet, right next to the bed. That first night in this apartment, after the funeral, after days of lawyers and city offices and scores of gray people, Auntie Lea had held out the box to him as though it were a sacred treasure. But Trace had not taken it, touched it, or even watched as she set it on the closet shelf.

Whenever you want it, Theo, she had whispered. His aunt had draped an arm around his shoulders, squeezing them gently, and kissed his forehead. He had had to hold on to the ladder, waiting for the wave to pass until she let go and tiptoed to the door. But why be so quiet? Why tiptoe when stomping and shouting made more sense?

I know it won’t be easy, Auntie Lea said. I miss them too, so very, very much. She had waited. But Trace had nothing to say. This is your home now, she added softly. And that had been that.

Trace let his long legs fall back to the bed. He could not look at their pictures. He could not even open the box. Nothing could go on those walls. Because everything he hung up, anything he hung up, would be instead of them, covering them or trying to get past them.

Theo! his aunt called. Dinner!

For a minute, Trace felt a spark of hope as he reached the kitchen. There was a sweet, tangy smell of barbecue in the air. Brenda, his aunt’s friend, and Dawoud, her partner, were already at the table, their plates loaded. Trace loved barbecued anything. He detoured quickly to wash his hands before Auntie Lea had to remind him.

Theodore Raymundo Carter, my man! Dawoud said as Trace slid into his seat. Since arriving in Brooklyn, Theodore Raymond Carter had heard enough variations on his name to make him immune to any teasing.

On day one at IS 99, his chem lab partner had been Tiberius Q. Lee. Until he met Ty, Trace had gone all day without speaking to another student. In every class, the teachers had made a point of reading his name and introducing him as new. Without fail, the name Theodore was met with winces, rolled eyes, and scattered snickers. By lunchtime, he had heard The Odor, Thermador, and The Ogre as he passed students in the halls. The names were never launched directly at him—they were just laughing whispers that sailed by as he searched for his next class.

At lunchtime, the cafeteria had been a canyon of noise. The constant buzz of laughing, flirting, and fussing that dominated the big room made Trace think of a hive. All these bees knew one another, they shared stories and secrets, and they probably knew one another’s families. So he had gone to the far wall to a table where only a few places were taken, a table clearly designated for outcasts. No one spoke to him, and by the time fifth period arrived, he just wanted the day to end.

This is Theotus Carter, class, Mr. Domenici, the chemistry teacher, said drily. Trace considered correcting him. But why bother? No one had looked

Reviews for Trace

[jennybeast · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Starts out with a semi-typical kid surviving loss and massive displacement, getting used to a new school, but quickly introduces some genuinely creepy ghost encounters, that then weave throughout the book. Masterful storytelling that allows Trace's relationships to slowly unfold as he gets used to his new surroundings.

Trace is a middle-schooler (12? I think? 6th or 7th grader? I can't remember if this was specified), who has just been picked to lead a group project on the the decade of US history in the 1860s. The group project ends up leading him to the New York Public Library, where Trace has an experience that alienates him from his classmates and shakes up his understanding of the world. I don't want to put spoilers in here, because there's some interesting and delicate plot shifts, and it's cool to see everything gradually connect. Highlights for me: Trace's colorful aunt, with her eclectic crowd of Brooklyn friends and her deep love of exploratory cooking; mean girl comeuppance; kids being kids in the awkward beginning of romance age; Trace's journey to healing as he comes to terms with the recent deaths of his parents and his own survival; particularly vivid and sometimes dreamlike scenes, beautifully conveyed; a really cool take on finding what interests you in history and making it relatable. Enjoyable read.

Advanced Reader's copy provided by Edelweiss.